


for destruction, ice

by MaryPSue



Series: firebird suite [3]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Canon What Canon, Gen, Self-Indulgent, did these two ever actually interact while emma was on the team i do not know nor do i care, implied suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 02:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8647630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: Somehow, the part of all of this that seems the strangest is the fact that Emma Frost, the White Queen, has a therapist.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title's from Robert Frost, _Fire And Ice_. Might be a little too on the nose but I figure that most of the other people who use this site struggle with titles at least as much as I do, and my other option was a Halsey lyric.

The door opens while Jean’s still in her robe, sitting on her bed toweling her hair dry.

“You could knock,” she snaps, and Emma shrugs, with perfect, practiced indifference.

“Please, you know I knew you were decent.” She takes a step into the room, carefully places a business card face-up on Jean’s vanity with all the ceremony of a waiter in an upscale restaurant positioning a plate in front of a diner. “Here. My therapist’s number. Set up an appointment.” It’s not a request.

Jean’s tempted to reply with something sassy, a challenging ‘what if I don’t’ or something smart about someone like Emma needing a therapist. For once, she holds her tongue. _Control_.

“Thank you,” she says, instead, doing her best to convey without words that the intrusion and the advice are both equally unnecessary and unwanted. Trying to convey without words, without showing too much emotion, that as far as she’s concerned, Emma Frost is still the White Queen is still an enemy.

Emma’s eyes are the blue of an Arctic summer and just as cold.

“I might have bought your little self-sacrifice act the first time,” she says, clipped, precise, glancing down to examine her fingernails. She’s wearing elbow-length gloves. Jean doesn’t comment, tries to make a look say it all. It doesn’t matter, because Emma doesn’t look up to see it. “Even the second time, you still had plausible deniability. But three?” She gestures, as though flicking something from her fingertips. “You’ve gotten away with it this long because your teammates are all so _stupidly_ noble. But I’m not so easily fooled.”

“I thought you were more than happy to have me out of the way,” Jean says, then bites down on her tongue.

Emma steps forward. The door slams behind her, the slight breeze fluttering her unnecessarily dramatic white cape.

“If you tell any of the others about this, I will cheerfully pull your tongue out by the root,” she says, still dispassionate, cold. “But – Scott was wrecked. They all were. They got you back, only to lose you again. _Three. Times._ Do you know what that does to a person?”

“Maybe you should give _Scott_ your therapist’s number, then.”

Jean leans back as Emma takes another step forward, slow, deliberate.

“Whether you want to believe it or not, they’re my teammates now,” she says, and there’s nothing soft about her words, nothing tender. “They are my people. And if you hurt them like that again, I’ll personally track down your next resurrection and murder it before you can pull this same shit on them all over again.”

If she doesn’t mean it, she’s become a much more convincing liar than the last time Jean saw her.

“How dare you,” Jean says, clawing her fingers and digging them into the mattress. “ _You_  can stand there and tell me that you _care_ about them? About any of them? You’re talking about my _family_ , you -”

“We both want the same thing,” Emma says, shortly, cutting Jean off with a quick, darting glance at the air above Jean’s head. Jean doesn’t look, doesn’t have to, doesn’t have to see through Emma’s eyes to know what’s hovering there. She takes a deep breath, uncurls her fingers from where they’re clenched in the sheets. _Control_ , dammit. Perfect, icy control. Like the damn White Queen. “Make the appointment.”

Emma turns on her heel before Jean can summon a rejoinder, the door flying open for her and slamming closed after her, nearly catching the hem of her cape.

Jean reaches up, finds her hair perfectly dry.

She curls both hands into fists, and the little card on her vanity bursts into flame.


End file.
